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be
one, you'll be on a diet. Dunno why I bother getting fancy anyway,
no matter what I do to prepare you fall on me like a burger and
fries anyway.”
“Not always, just when it's been
awhile.”
“You mean like more than a day or so.”
“Pretty much, yes. But I don't treat you
like fast food.”
“Sure you do. You step up, glance at the
menu with your mouth open while I wait for you to decide, then you
get the same thing you always do, tear through it like a
linebacker, then dump your tray and leave. As it were.”
“But at least I finish eating before I play
on the playground.”
“I think our metaphors are getting a bit
confused.”
“I certainly am. But hey, if we went the
fast-food route we could mount one of those big bells like Long
John Silver’s has and I could just ring that whenever it was really
good.”
“Oh, God. There's something to look forward
to.”
“The happiest of Happy Meals, and that way
the neighbors could keep track of your service record. Back to the
card.”
“Shouldn't we be getting up or going to
sleep or something?”
“Quiet, this is just good manners. How will
service ever improve if we don't take the time to comment?”
“You could stop yelling 'wahoo, ride 'em
cowboy' during intimate moments, for one thing.”
“Romance is dead. Perhaps you could offer
after-sex mints or something.”
“You hate mints.”
“But it would give me something to whip at
the light switch. I hate getting up right afterwards.”
“That would explain why you favor t-shirts
for cleanup.”
“That's another thing, you should provide
linens. Maybe a handiwipe like the barbecue places have.”
“One more word and you'll be stuck with
self-serve, you know that, don't you?”
“You're still my favorite night spot, you
know.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
     
     
“Hey?”
“Mmmmphh?”
“Would madam be interested in a midnight
snack? Plenty of protein…”
     
     

-------------------------

An Unsigned
Love Letter Stuffed in a Locker
     
I find you in an intimate apparel boutique,
like Victoria's Secret, or Wal-Mart. You're at the register.
There's a long line of customers in front of you, you're hurried
and frantic and so you don't see me coming up from behind. I sneak
up, quiet as the jungle cat I resemble and smell like, to stand
directly behind you, close enough to breathe in the intoxicating
combination of silky soft hair and Cheetos.
I nod, smiling, to the customer behind you,
inviting him to share in the momentary deception and enjoy your
imminent surprise, even to go first if he wants to. He nods back,
sending me silent messages in the age-old gentleman's code, for me
to take first crack. He follows it up by waving his erect penis at
the both of us, signifying his approval of what is surely to come,
much like the howler monkey (and his enemy, the hideous
shark).
I take advantage of your sudden confusion to
gently reach around and stroke your neck, lightly and lovingly,
with a #3 Phillips head screwdriver. You jump, startled, before
relaxing to my sure and confident hands. My hands rest lightly on
your shoulders as I snuggle and lick your neck from behind and the
customers begin muttering, moving around us and taking side-bets.
You have just enough time to lay $100 to place before surrendering
to my embrace.
I featherflick my tongue up your carotid
artery to your chin, nibbling my way around and enjoying your
delighted murmurs. I reach your ear and carefully nip your earlobe,
then abruptly seize it between my teeth and bite through (much like
my enemy, the hideous shark). Rich red blood spurts out to run in
crimson rivulets down your throat, between your breasts and into
your beeper, shorting it instantly in a death dance of sparks and
flame.
I leap upon the register, beating my chest
and bellowing my challenge to all other bull cashiers for your
favor. Mr. Wortley, the floor manager, accepts, romping up and down
the main aisle on all fours, beating his own chest and